


Some Things Never Change

by golden_redhead



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Awkwardness, Breakfast, Conversations, Drunk Kaito Momota, Drunkenness, Hangover, M/M, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Virtual Reality, caretaker Ouma? kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_redhead/pseuds/golden_redhead
Summary: The last thing Ouma Kokichi expected to see on a Friday night was a drunk out of his mind Momota Kaito knocking on his door and swaying on his legs, fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of the half-empty bottle of wine.
Relationships: Momota Kaito & Oma Kokichi, Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 188





	Some Things Never Change

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I feel like I should say is that Kaito isn't supposed to be an alcoholic in this fic, just a person who is dealing with a lot of shit and reached for alcohol in his rare moments of weakness, partially in a desperate attempt to make reaching to Ouma easier. That said though, it's not very clear in the fic itself and if alcoholism or alcohol in general is one of your triggers then it might be a good idea to not read it. 
> 
> Also, it's probably important to mention that it's a Virtual Reality AU post-game scenario and Kaito and Kokichi hasn't seen each other since the game ended.
> 
> And, as always, I wanted to thank my wonderful beta @asteroidtaker (Tumblr) for helping me! You're the best.

The last thing Ouma Kokichi expected to see on a Friday night was a drunk out of his mind Momota Kaito knocking on his door and swaying on his legs, fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of the half-empty bottle of wine. 

“Long time no see!” He hollered as soon as the door opened. Ouma flinched slightly at the volume of his voice, instinctively taking a step back. A flicker of disbelief flashed through his eyes only to vanish almost as soon as it appeared. If he was surprised to see the fellow ex-participant of the most controversial season of Danganronpa - he didn’t let it show. He looked up at Momota, utterly and completely unimpressed.

“You’re drunk,” stated Ouma matter of factly, his voice devoid of emotion.

He stared at the slumped against the doorframe form of someone who he knew as the Ultimate Astronaut so long ago, and yet not long enough.

Momota opened his mouth and for a moment Ouma thought that he’s going to respond, but all he did was let out a particularly loud burp and then stumbled, tripping over his own legs in a heap of uncoordinated limbs. Ouma reached out his hands before he could think better of it and slam the door right in Momota’s face. He regretted it immediately when Momota’s full body weight fell on his significantly smaller form, almost sending them to the ground in a tangled pile of bodies.

“How did you even find me?” he hissed wrapping his hands around one of Momota’s arms and pulling him inside before anyone could see him. He didn’t need this kind of publicity. Or any kind of publicity, really. He was perfectly fine living on his own and avoiding people as much as possible. And he was good at it, too. He’s learned how to keep his head low, tucking his hair under a cap or hoodie whenever he had to get out, having his food home-delivered, erasing any traces of himself from the face of the Earth with pedantic precision until all that was left was a bunch of rumors and speculations about his current whereabouts. 

He shut the outside world entirely and hasn’t looked back ever since. 

It was only when Ouma finally managed to half-drag Momota’s body to his living room and sit him on the couch that Momota finally answers his question with disarming honesty. “Kiibo told me.”

Ouma tsked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Traitor.”

Momota offered nothing more than a small shrug, slumping against the couch, eyes half-lidded and a lopsided smile playing on his lips. He looked completely out of it, barely resembling the Ultimate Astronaut he first met him as. Then again, there’s little left of the people they used to be in the game, so maybe that’s for the best. 

“You reek,” Ouma observed scrunching his nose at the smell, a note of disgust that he didn’t even try to hide seeping into his words. He leaned in, prying the half-finished bottle of wine from Momota’s fingers and putting it away from his reach. 

“We had this thing, y’know,” slurred Momota a’propos of nothing, completely ignoring Ouma’s comment, his body sprawled on the couch, limp and uncooperative, “this... hero villain thing.”

“Whatever you say,” grunted Ouma, barely paying any attention to him. “Take these off,” he commands, nudging his leg with his foot. Momota just blinks at him stupidly and Ouma lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Shoes. And jeans,” he clarifies. “Take them off.”

When all Momota does is continue to blink, Ouma rolls his eyes and lets out a frustrated huff. “Fine, I’ll do it. You are useless, Momota-chan. Totally useless.”

He moves closer, struggling to free Momota’s feet from his old sneakers and then to get him out of his reeking of alcohol jeans, material filthy and sticky to the touch. He prefers not to think about the weird stains running down the length of the pant leg.

“No, no, no,” whines Momota, protesting childishly and swatting at Ouma’s hands with a pout once he started to pull his jeans down, straining to free his legs. The smaller boy let out another exaggerated sigh and frowned, looking at him with a grimace. 

“What is it?” pressed Ouma impatiently, straightening from his crouched position next to him, hands on his hips. 

“Don’t wanna… ugh…” He blinked a few times, clearly losing his train of thought. Ouma uses this moment of drunken disorientation to yank the jeans off his legs, leaving him only in those ridiculous black boxers imprinted with cartoonish red stars. Ouma wrinkled his nose at the sight, but didn’t voice any of the comments that came to his mind, fully aware that his insults, no matter how good, will be wasted on Momota when he’s in this state. He can store them in his memory for later. 

“Just—don’t puke, okay? And stay here,” he mutters needlessly — it’s not like Momota could move anywhere anyway — and hurries to another room. He’s back not even a minute later, throwing a folded shirt in Momota’s direction, smacking him in the face in the process. 

“Since Momota-chan came unannounced I don’t have any pants for him,” he drawls when Momota’s questioning eyes manage to find his face and focus a little through the haze of drunkness, “buuut he should be grateful that I enjoy my shirts a liiittle too big.” 

Something seems to reach Momota, because some kind of clouded recognition flashed in his eyes and he started to take off his steeped in alcohol shirt and obediently put on the one Ouma gave him, struggling for a while to put his arms correctly through the holes.

Ouma hums approvingly when he finally manages to do so and collapses back on the cushions, his breathing a bit laboured, as if that simple task wasted all of his remaining energy. Which, come to think of it, was most likely true. 

He means to leave the room, but as soon as he began to move to do that Momota’s hand reached out to grasp at the hem of his shirt. “Stay,” he says, “I wanted to like, apologize, you know.”

One of Ouma’s eyebrows curves in an arch. “Is that why Momota-chan was at my door at three in the morning?”

“Y-yeah,” Momota hiccuped, straightening slightly, an action that proves to be entirely unsuccessful. “Cause like, I’ve never done that, y’know?”

Ouma pressed his lips into a thin line and simply stared at him. He had a rising suspicion that he wasn’t interested in hearing what Momota has to say, but he also couldn't find it in himself to just leave. So he stays, fixed on the spot, listening as Momota continues. 

“So I read those meta,“ another hiccup, followed closely by a sprout of giggles that sound so unlike the Momota that he used to know, “character study… analysis... thingies about you. About how you were actually, y’know, one of the good guys. And how we, uh, misre… mistrea… didn’t treat you right.” 

Ouma’s heart stuttered in his chest, fluttering painfully against the ribs. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Momota-chan.” he says but the words sound weirdly hollow and clipped on his tongue, the lack of conviction apparent. Then again, it wasn’t like he expected Momota to sense it in his sorry state. He is hardly the liar he used to be, left to wonder if that’s because it was fake, just as fake as the rest of his sorry existence, or simply because there is nothing left to lie about anymore, all of his cards exposed and bare for everyone to see. Still, he tries, his lips twitching in a pitiful imitation of a smile. “I am the Supreme Leader of Evil, don’t you forget that. I could have had all of your heads at my plate, all I had to do was ask, Momota-chan,” his lips stretch in a ghost of a malicious smile, one of many he had as his disposal back in the killing game. It’s like muscle memory by this point, a practised expression. “I just didn’t care about peasants like you.”

Momota shaked his head and then moaned pitifully seconds later when all it seemed to do was make him more dizzy.

“No, but like, man, we were so,” he took a deep breath and for a moment looked disoriented, as if he lost the line of thought once more and was straining to reach it through the mess of his thoughts, muddled with alcohol. “We were so fucking unfair. M’sorry.”

He doesn’t stop there, but Ouma tunes off the rest of Momota’s drunken blabbering. It’s not like Momota knows what he’s talking about, of course he doesn’t. He could delude himself that he managed to solve the mystery that was Ouma Kokichi with a few analysis posts that some obsessed fangirls wrote about him, but he was wrong. 

He knew nothing about him back then and he most certainly knows nothing about who he is now. 

It’s such a Momota thing to do, such a Momota thing to _think_ , so sure that he had him figured out just because he’s done the bare minimum to try. Ouma can feel the strangely familiar prickle of irritation under his skin, the same mute, distant anger that forced his hand in the game when he had no choice but to capture him and keep him in that hangar, the hangar he sees every night, walls crawling closer as the hydraulic press hovers over him, ready to begin its descent. 

Ouma’s hands curl into fists at his sides and he could taste blood, lip digging deep into the skin until it breaks. It’s enough to harshly bring him back to reality and with a small shake of his head he chases away those traitorous thoughts.

“Let’s get some more water into you, hm?” he says suddenly, stopping Momota mid-sentence, and then bolts out of the room, disappearing in the hallway before Momota could utter a single word of protest or try to stop him. 

Ouma could feel a headache already building in his temples and quickly getting worse. It’s not surprising, really. Momota’s always seemed to have that effect on him. 

He quickly searched for a glass and filled it to the brim, water sloshing around when he carried it to Momota, pushing it into his hands with a little too much force. 

“Thanks,” Momota mumbled into the glass as he starts to drink voraciously, as if he hasn’t drank in days. He even closed his eyes, savoring the water like it’s some kind of holy drink, even though Ouma is fairly sure that he’s barely aware what he’s doing. He downs the entire glass in a matter of seconds and Ouma finds himself going to the kitchen two more times to get him more, quietly grateful for the distraction and the fact that it seems to shut Momota up, at least temporarily. 

“Sorry for, uh, coming here, I guess,” Momota said in a moment of surprising clarity once he’s finished downing the thirds glass. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “Didn’t mean to impose on you like that, you know. It just… kinda happened?”

“Why didn’t Momota-chan go to his sidekicks then?” Asked Ouma, cocking his head to the side, brows furrowed in curious confusion. 

Yeah, why didn’t he? 

Even if he truly wanted to apologize he surely must have realized Ouma doesn’t want his I’m sorry’s nor does he expect them. And if he wished for better treatment for Ouma then he should have started with them. He extends his hand to reach Momota’s hair without thinking much of it, tugging the stray strand behind his ear. Only then he realizes what he’s done and withdraws his hand quickly as if he’s been burned. 

The sounds Momota lets out in response to his question sounds like a laugh, but feels nothing like it. Ouma thinks it’s the most pitiful sound he’s ever heard, surprisingly sober in Momota’s current state. A pang of distant, silly pity that he instantly regrets, but can’t quite stop, burns in his chest. 

“I can’t, okay? Harukawa is like,” Momota closed his eyes and twirls his finger, looking for the right word, face scrunched up in confusion. “She’s, uh, acting like nothing happened? She’s just… Like, in denial, man.”

Ouma hums quietly and Momota nods vigorously, as if agreeing with him, even though he hasn’t said a word. “Yeah! And then there’s Saihara and he’s just,” Momota groaned loudly, throwing his arms up in frustration, “you know?”

Ouma nods slowly, not because he gets it, but because he finds it too easy to imagine. He doesn’t miss the way Momota has abandoned using their first names and those silly nicknames he came up with back in the game, instead opting to use their surnames. It’s a surprising change, one that couldn’t go unnoticed and speaks volumes, even if Momota can’t put it into words, drunk or not.

“Well, that was to be expected,” he says with a half-shrug.

Momota wheezes out another laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees and it feels like there’s more to it, but nothing more follows and eventually he simply says “yeah” once more, just this time it sounds more like a sigh.

“I’ll go get some blankets for you, Momota-chan. I suppose you can stay the night since you’ve already put me through aaall that trouble of taking care of your drunk ass.” 

“M’sorry,” Momota slurs again, but Ouma simply shrugs and tells him to wait for him while he goes to get him something to sleep. 

By the time he comes back with a blanket, Momota’s already fast asleep, sprawled over the length of his couch and snoring loudly, the glass of water he’s left him with knocked on the ground, forming a small puddle on the carpet. 

With a roll of his eyes Ouma haphazardly throws the blanket over Momota’s sleeping form. He doesn’t even stir, letting out an even louder snore when Ouma pulls the blanket higher until it covers his entire body, shielding him from the cold. On his way out, Ouma bends over to pick up the glass from the floor and turns off the lights, muttering a whisper-like “goodnight” that he doesn’t expect any response to. 

He goes to his bed and pretends to sleep for the rest of the night. 

*

The next morning, Momota stumbles out of the living room and into his kitchen when Ouma’s already halfway through his breakfast, scrambled eggs and a single toast.

Momota freezes in the doorway when he senses Ouma’s eyes on him, swaying slightly — still clearly hungover — and squinting at him in the harsh, bright light of the morning sun that sneaks in through the blinds. He’s once again wearing the jeans Ouma helped him out of last night and the shirt he borrowed him, in the morning light seemingly too tight in the chest area, hugging his muscles in a way Ouma pretends not to find attractive. 

“Good morning, Momota-chan!” Ouma chirps cheerily, gesturing to the kitchen counter where another plate waits along with a glass of orange juice. “Care to join me for breakfast?” 

Momota looks slightly taken aback, something uncertain, almost sheepish, flashing across his face, which Ouma finds quite amusing.

After a moment of what looks like some kind of internal battle, Momota eventually reaches for the plate and glass and moves to put them on the table, sitting across from Ouma. He looks confused, but doesn’t question Ouma’s hospitality, and once the initial hesitation passes he starts to munch on his toast. By the time he finishes it and starts to pick at his eggs he looks a little more alive than when he stumbled into Ouma’s apartment in the middle of the night. Ouma observes him over the rim of his cup, the calming scent of tea hovering in the air. 

It’s a quiet meal, neither of them uttering a single word, Ouma’s gaze fixed on Momota’s figure watchfully, but not unkindly. 

Momota’s appetite seems to pick up, because by the end of the meal he positively shoves the rest of the eggs into his mouth and gulps the entire glass of orange juice in one go. Once he’s finished, he puts the glass down and the silence between them that hasn’t been all that bothersome until now seems to get more palatable, heavy with tension. 

Momota’s eyes find his and Ouma, never one to back down, responds with a stare just as attentive. 

“Thank you,” Momota says after a few more minutes. It sounds sincere, although whether he’s thanking for letting him stay for the night, for making breakfast or for something else entirely is unclear. 

Ouma beams at him nevertheless. “You are very welcome, Momota-chan!” 

Momota blinks at him once, twice, seemingly at loss for words. Ouma can tell that there’s something left unvoiced, can tell that Momota struggles to keep it in, either unsure of how to put it into words or afraid of what could follow once he lets it out in the open.

Ultimately, he says nothing, and Ouma finds it almost admirable. It’s unlikely for Momota to leave things bottled up inside, surprising to see him so subdued now that he’s more sober and aware of the awkwardness of this situation. 

They haven’t seen each other in months, Ouma successfully disappearing from the surface of the Earth and Momota too caught up in playing pretend and acting as if this is what he wanted. He’s always been good at that and Ouma would be almost impressed if only he hasn’t been too busy pitying him. Some things never change and this just seems to be one of them. 

Momota clears his throat. Loudly. “I should go,” he says. 

Ouma smiles at him brightly. “Yeah, I think Momota-chan has been reeeally inconsiderate taking advantage of little ol’ me for so long,” he pretend-whines, nearly squeaking in glee when Momota makes a face, the familiarity of it unexpectedly comforting. 

“Yeah,” Momota scratches the back of his neck absentmindedly. “Sorry again about everything. I... I’ll return your shirt after I wash it.” 

Ouma waves his hand dismissively. “You can keep it! It looks better on Momota-chan than it does on me anyway.”

Momota starts to open his mouth to protest, but Ouma cuts him before he has a chance to get a single word out. “Momota-chan, I insist!”

“Uh, fine. If you… insist,” he agrees finally and Ouma can’t help but giggle a little. Momota looking so lost and out of place, all of his brash, loud energy gone is the most entertainment he’s had in a long while. 

“I’ll be going then,” Momota announces awkwardly.

“Bye, Momota-chan! It was horrible to see you!”

Momota looks uncomfortable now, but he turns away and leaves the kitchen without another word, the sound of shuffling as he first searches for his shoes and then proceeds to put them on reaching Ouma’s ears. 

Seconds before Momota could shut the door after himself, Ouma follows him to the hallway and calls out: “Oh, and Momota-chan?”

Momota turns, staring at him questioningly. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

Momota stares at him for a long moment, blinking a few times as if struggling to process his words. Once he finally does, his lips curve in a small smile. 

“Sure.”

And with that he’s gone, the door closing after him with a quiet click, leaving Ouma alone with the quietness of his apartment and the long-cold tea, the cup of tea still clasped tightly in his rigid fingers until he forces himself to unclench them and lets out a shuddering breath that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet of his apartment. 

He puts the cup away and washes the dishes. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know this isn’t exactly the best thing I’ve ever written, but, uh, I’ve been struggling a little with my writing recently, especially since at first I had no time and then once my winter break came I was too stressed out to write. My life has been kind of a mess recently and I wish things were different, but welp, this is my reality, I guess. 
> 
> This fic isn't perfect, but... It’s something. And honestly, at this point I’ll take anything over nothing. I miss writing, I feel like I’m disappointing my readers and I just miss Oumota and this fandom. I promise to try harder to post and update my fics more frequently.


End file.
